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“But why?” He looks at me as if I’m the devil playing God, causing me to laugh.
“Honest to God, I want to help her,” I say simply after a few minutes, my amusement waning. Own her, but I don’t voice that part aloud. Instead, I relax in my seat—controlling the part of me that demands answers. That wants to reach across and force the information out of him.
What stops me from doing so is his honest affection for her. The fact that I know London would be angry, and to me, that’s unacceptable.
“How do you know her? What did she do?”
“It’s her brother’s head I’m after.”
Earl runs a hand down his face, a deep sigh leaving him. “That asshole is not Amelia’s son.”
“Amelia is their mother, no?” I’m baiting. Already know this. What I want is the details that aren’t on a piece of paper. Firsthand accounts of how Marcus weaseled his way in. How he and his son came to hold Twirl’s future in their hands.
“She is her mother.” He takes another deep breath and lets it out slow. He’s trying to figure me out and what to say. If he can save her.
“Earl, I’m not going to hurt her…” there’s a small folder on the table that I push his way “…quite the contrary, actually.”
“What’s this?”
“Open it.” Shooting me another questioning gaze, he takes the folder in his hands and opens it. His eyes skim across each page, taking in every single bit of information inside. The who, how, and when of the Fosters’ operations. But more importantly, how they are funding their schemes.
Because that is what they are. A low-level operation running on one grandeur fuckup after another.
“As you can see, I’ve already done my homework. I know their plans, old man, but I need you to fill in the blanks. Help me end this for her.”
“Malcolm, why are you doing this? What did Marcus and his degenerate son do?
“Hurt her.” At my words his eyes snap to mine, and in them I see the same hate that’s been brewing within me. I’m not the nicest man—being seen as an asshole doesn’t hurt my feelings—but the one thing I will never do is hurt an innocent. Someone who has nothing to do with this life I’ve chosen. “He put his hands on that which is pure.”
“You care?”
“I do.”
“And she will be okay? No harm will come to her?”
“London will never know fear again as long as I have breath left in my body.”
“Okay. Okay.” Earl pulls his wallet from his back pocket and produces an old, worn picture from inside. It’s the picture of two women about the same age as Twirl is now. There’s no doubt that the one on the left is a younger version of Mary, his wife, but the other is the spitting image of London.
Or in this case, my girl looks just like her mother. The resemblance is uncanny.
It also proves that there’s a connection between the families.
“How did you all know each other?”
“Mary and Amelia were best friends. They grew up and went to school together…Catholic school at that.” He chuckles as a small hint of pink touches his ears. “They were beautiful, but my eyes have always been for Mary, even though she was completely out of my league. They came from a somewhat upper-class upbringing while I was poor, not that it mattered to me. One look at Mary and I was a goner, something that amused Amelia. She didn’t get it until she met Julian Conte her senior year of high school.”
“Julian Conte? That names sounds very familiar.”
“That’s because he owned a chain of restaurants all over Illinois. Amore was theirs.”
“Was?”
Earl nods. “He passed away when Amelia was still pregnant with London. Horrible car accident on his way home one night…he died on impact.”
“Jesus.” My poor Twirl’s entire life has been filled with nothing but loss. Of her father. Of her mother. Her money and basic human rights.
“Yeah.” Grabbing his drink, he takes a few sips while trying to gather his thoughts. “They fell in love. It was fast and hard and everything she ever wanted. Julian was good to her, there for her, and even in his death, took care of them. Everything he had was given to Amelia and at her death, it went to London.”
